


String Theory

by MindfulWrath



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Angst, F/M, Perversion, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 01:18:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8601577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindfulWrath/pseuds/MindfulWrath
Summary: Rythian misses Zoey, in all the worst ways.





	

He thinks about Zoey entirely too much.

Or, rather, he thinks about someone _else,_  someone _worse,_  someone who he _actually_  has a chance of ever being close to, someone who he wouldn’t hurt. Or even if he _did_  hurt them, it wouldn’t matter.

He hurts just about everyone. He thought, maybe, if he didn’t get too close to her, he couldn’t hurt her, or at least not as badly. He was wrong about that one. Somehow he got close without meaning to, without noticing, and he _has_  hurt her.

It always starts off being Zoey he thinks about, her hands, her voice, her breath, her lips, before he checks himself like a swift punch in the gut. Not _her._  Never _her._  They barely exist on the same plane. Touch is not only an irredeemable sin, it is impossible. They are images that cannot coexist. He thinks about her, always, but he cannot picture her in his arms. He cannot imagine them together. It is like trying to grasp the true immensity of the universe. It is like trying to envision a new color. It is simply impossible.

Sometimes he wonders if she is even real, if she’s something he made up to miss. Ever since she left, he’s been wondering. Perhaps that’s why his mind will not place them together. Because she was never real.

Or perhaps _he_  isn’t real. It wouldn’t surprise him.

Someone else. Someone worse. Someone as real as he is, someone on the same wavelength, in the same universe. He can’t think of anyone. Again, his mind’s eye is blind. There are no faces, no voices, nothing familiar and nothing tangible. Someone. Anyone. He can imagine the touch with perfect clarity, hands against his shoulders and lips pressed to his throat, but there the illusion falls apart. There is no person he can conjure up for whom he can suspend his disbelief high enough to think they would _actually_  want him.

Every so often, his skin forgets the touch of his own hands, and for a few miraculous minutes he can sit with his fingertips against his neck and _feel_  again.

He tries not to think about Zoey. It feels cruel. It feels wicked and gluttonous and disgusting. It feels like somehow, somewhere out there, he is hurting her, as though the fragile actions of his mind could permeate the universe and draw clouds across her being. It feels violating. It feels _wrong._

It feels so good, sometimes, that he thinks he might die of it. He thinks of her _actual_  hand on his chest, skin to skin, and knows it would kill him. He wants it more than anything in the world.

He hopes, for her sake, that she never comes back. He would not be able to hide it from her. Inevitably she would take his hand, or touch his shoulder, and he would unravel, come apart like the delicate head of a wished-upon dandelion. The moment she touched him, the illusion would fall apart, that she did not exist, that contact was impossible and impossibly wrong. He would burn with so much wanting that it would destroy him, flash-bang like a firework and then only charred cardboard and smoke where once he had stood.

He hopes that she never comes back.


End file.
